


The Project(s)

by misreall



Category: Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: Gen, Inspiration, procrastination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misreall/pseuds/misreall
Summary: What does Tom do with all of that time he's not working?
Relationships: None
Comments: 27
Kudos: 34





	The Project(s)

**Author's Note:**

> For the TWG writing challenge, a Valentine / belated birthday gift to and about my muse.

Tom Hiddleston, recently forty and happily at home on a cold morning, turned off the steam valve of his Victoria Arduino Venus espresso machine with a practiced hand at the exact moment perfect foam was achieved, not even needing to look up from the Mandarian exam he was just finishing up on his phone. 

Taking up his cup, he strolled out of the kitchen, giving a side-glance to the half-greenhouse he’d personally built onto the house. His orchids were doing well, though with the cold snap coming he would have to adjust the humidity. 

Climbing the stairs, whilst sipping, the test having been sent off to his instructor, Tom opened the paper on theoretical physics and abstract theory of energy he had been asked to edit. A few paragraphs in he sighed, closing the page. He was going to have to print the whole thing out to restructure it, and clearly, his Dutch was not as good as he thought it was.

Ahead of him was the door to his office, a perfectly normal-looking door, but to him ominous. Its white paint seemed to glow with a sinister malevolence that seemed out of place in Camden. And beyond it-

Tom didn’t like to think what was beyond that simple, wooden door.

Despite his dread, he took the cold, brass doorknob in his hand and turned. Slowly. So slowly.

With a small pop as the latch opened, there was suddenly a low, rolling menace of sound, like an encroaching storm or a terrible traffic accident happening streets away. 

It grew louder.

He pushed the door. It would not give.

Closing his eyes, his mouth a pained twist, he carefully set his coffee on a small, inlaid table he had made based on a photo he had once seen of one in a museum in Cairo, and set his shoulder to the door. 

Thank god he had been doing some upper bodywork, for it took all of his strength, and the push of his runner’s thighs to fight the rising tide that tried to force the door back closed.

Finally, straining something that he would worry about later, he managed to open the bloody thing, and as he did, like a surf coming in, dozens of scripts flooded out of the room, eddying around his stockinged feet.

He had knit the socks himself and was rather proud of how well he had turned the heel.

There, pooling about him evermore, now at ankle height, was his shame.

He could see their names, the writer of the works beseeching his attention, the titles hoping to pique his interest. 

Sequels, some of them good ideas, such as the ones for  _ The Night Manager _ , and some of them not so well thought out. For instance, did anyone really want a _ High Rise  _ sequel called  _ The Block of Flats _ ? 

Original works. Well, marginally original. Like most things done today.

Historicals in which he would be called on to wear anything from a chiton, to a periwig, to WWII uniform. 

Even, god help them, remakes.

Actually, most of them were remakes. Remakes of classics, reimaginings of Shakespeare set in - variously - a bowling alley, a day spa, and, for whatever reason, early 20th century Iowa. Remakes of films that were less than ten years old. And the inevitable remakes of remakes.

Looking down, he could see scripts for remakes of Singing in the Rain, My Favorite Year, Wonder Man (which, he had to admit, he ALMOST wanted to pick up. Playing twins would be an interesting challenge), Captain Blood, His Girl Friday, and -

Was that  _ Crimson Peak _ ? 

Picking it up, he saw, it WAS _ Crimson Peak _ . Blumhouse wanted to remake it. 

With a shaking hand, he dropped it back onto the pile, picked up his coffee for a fortifying sip, and stepped carefully over the growing hillock of scripts, heading for the stairs to the attic. He had just finished building the 12th century loom he had been wanting for a while and was ready to start on that tapestry for the front hallway. It was a perfect day for it.


End file.
